Regrets
by Kit Moreau
Summary: Rath's been invited to a wedding that isn't his... but should be. Oneshot. RathLyn, HectorLyn


_A/N: One of my more recent pieces. As a note, I'm pretty sure I can ship anyone with anyone given the chance. This isn't bashing one pairing or the other. Don't hate! :P And I'm not normally this depressing, but this was one of those plotbunnies that showed up and never went away. In fact, this showed up and it took a good… three years before I gave in and wrote it. But anyway, here it is. R/R or something._

He'd gotten the invitation- who hadn't? The new Marquess of Ostia was marrying Marquess Caelin's granddaughter; it was a huge political step. Lots of fancy words and flowery platitudes spilled from the messenger's lips, and when he'd asked the rider whether he would be coming Rath remained silent, ever silent, until the man stumbled uncomfortably out of the tavern and rode away.

The whole of the old ragtag army- the survivors, at least- had gotten similar invitations. He didn't know who had agreed to attend, and he didn't care. The whole affair- he just _didn't care._ He tried to tell himself that over and over. Lycian politics mattered little to a nomad, why should this matrimony affect him at all? Just because it was Lyn...?

As the days crept closer and closer he found himself growing sullen and distracted, the tightness in his chest unmistakable and impossible to ignore. Every time he thought of the date, each tiny detail that reminded him of _her,_ he felt himself drawn more and more strongly to the Ostian capital.

And when the date came, he was there. He rode up to the church late and drew his horse to a stop across from it. The streets were practically empty, every citizen either attending inside the huge yellowed brick structure or celebrating elsewhere, save for the carriage at the base of the chapel's steps. Two nearly-identical white mares fidgeted before an open carriage adorned with flowers and the driver paced in front of them, glancing up into the sky every so often. It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to tint red in anticipation of sunset.

As he dismounted, recognition made a small, rare smile tug at his lips. The flowers on the carriage were her favorites- beautiful white wildflowers from the plains.

The small smile disappeared and he leaned across his stallion's saddle, calloused fingers stroking his mane as the nomad took in the view.

Stained glass windows, huge works of art, glittered above the heavy wooden doors of the church. The belltower stretched high above most of the city, columns of brick and thick wooden rafters providing the support needed for the bronze bells framed in the sunlight.

The made no sense- wasn't _her._ When she'd been with him on the plains, she'd told him she wanted a small, traditional wedding- a Sacaen ceremony, blessed by the nomadic gods and goddesses. Not this public affair in the name of the Saint.

He'd give anything to burst in there and steal her away, to speak his mind to those attending. Claim the plainswoman as his own under the watchful eyes of their Saint and his own Sacaen gods.

And he do it. Sweaty, dressed in travel clothes, and smelling of horse- even then, he'd claim his woman in front of those assembled.

But the question was... would she accept? His heart heavy, he pulled a wooden ring from his pocket. Hand-carved, engraved with symbols of love and eternal hope, and polished to a high shine- it was hers.

Or... it would have been.

When she'd sought him out on the plains, those months they'd spent together- he thought his prayers had been answered, his pleas to the gods finally acknowledged. His mind's eye looked back on those times together- huddled in front of a flickering campfire and regaling each other with boasts of past feats; riding through the plains, her hair flowing behind her like the grass beneath their horses' hooves... simple meals cooked together, laughter shared between them; a playful, immature roll down a hill and into an unseen cluster of thorn bushes. Nursing their wounds afterwards, the way she'd chuckled at his winces and called him a child- and the night after, when they'd distracted themselves from the pinpricks of pain with the proximity of each others' bodies.

And, days later- the messenger, her grandfather's summons. A chaste kiss on the nomad's cheek and she rode away. He'd watched her receding form, followed her for hours hoping to see her turn and look back.

He'd given up at sunset and turned back. She hadn't come back- hadn't sent him word until, months later, she'd sent a letter.

He hadn't known what it said until he searched out a scholar to read it to him, and the words were like a punch to the gut.

Engaged.

In the time she'd been at court, she'd gotten engaged. His heart fell and his face grew pale. Those hours searching for the perfect tree, days deciding on the right symbols... the carving, engraving, polishing, all the time and love he'd put into the ring he would present to her at their next meeting, when he'd ask for her hand-

All for nothing.

He'd tried to forget her, tried to throw himself into hunting, taking out bandits- and it had seemed to work for a while.

Then the messenger came again, with news of the wedding. Brought him here, tore a new hole in his heart.

He watched as he closed his hand over the ring- the shiny wooden circle looked too small in his palm, forlorn and forgotten.

That's it. He- he would do it, rush the church and- at the very least, _tell her how he felt._ He'd never needed many words. Perhaps- perhaps he was saving them. For now. For _her._

He commanded that his horse stay there and took a few deep, steadying breaths.

_I love you. From the day I first saw you, I've loved you. I want to spend my life with you, grow old with you, raise our children on the plains together. Take me, please, choose me over this Lycian noble. I can provide, I can make you happy, I can love you-_

He'd taken his first steps towards the church when he froze. The bells. The bells had begun to ring their joyous song through the city. It was almost deafening. Finished- the ceremony was _finished-_

The driver leaped onto the carriage just as the heavy wooden doors were flung open. People gushed out, happy people, laughing and cheering and throwing flowers. In the din caused by the bells and the crowd, Rath recoiled, took a step back, raised his hand as if to ward off a blow.

The crowd parted. Shining, almost, laughing happily and crying in joy, the happy couple ran through the doors and those gathered. Lyn wore a white dress much like her plainswoman's garb, her sword still at her side. Her hair was braided, gauzy cloth practically floating around her from where it was anchored by the tie at the back of her head. Hector wore dark ceremonial armor and a red cloak; his axe hung from his belt.

Reaching the top of the stairs, they froze. Holding hands, they waved at the gathered people behind and around them. Rath watched, then, as Lyn drew Hector into a kiss and he lifted her easily, carrying her, laughing, down the stairs to the carriage and depositing her on the seat. He hefted himself up and there were once again waving to the crowed. Rath recognized a few faces among those assembled.

Another kiss and the driver cracked his whip; the horses leaped forward and took off down the road. He watched her figure recede again, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks. Too late- he was too late. She was gone. Happy.

And he was alone again.

With a strangled cry, he vaulted onto his horse and brought him around sharply, kicking the stallion into a mad gallop away from the church, the memories.

Colors and sounds ran together, melded into the steady sound of hooves on stone. The wind dried the tears to his face and he blinked away any more that welled up. His breathing grew ragged; his chest began to burn almost painfully.

At the sound of wood beneath his horse's hooves, he urged the stallion to stop. Standing on a bridge, he was breathing almost as hard as his steed- cheeks and eyes red, face wet with tears and perspiration, he looked out over the river that formed one of the city's boundaries.

He looked back at the city that was celebrating the joining of two cantons and felt a piercing pain in his chest. His gaze drifted down to his fist, watched his fingers relax and uncurl.

The ring had left a red circle in the palm from where he'd clenched his hand. His gaze moved back to the river and his fingers closed around the ring.

Then he drew back and, with a ragged cry, launched the little wooden circle off the bridge.

He followed its path as it arced into the sky, the setting sun reflecting off the highly-polished surface for a moment before it plunged into the water.

Before the wooden ring could resurface, if it even would, the nomad was on his way back to the plains. Alone.


End file.
